And you are Ma'am?
by sariahbradshaw
Summary: He's her home. Her rock. Her shelter. Her person. Her sanctuary. She's fairly certain none of those descriptions are getting her into his emergency room.
1. Chapter 1

"And you are, ma'am?"

The moment of truth. Or would be truth if Emma wasn't about to-

They are definitely friends. Have been friends from the start, when she walked into his station with her perp in line and Victor made that comment about her 'sucking the truth out of him' and she had wheeled around to punch the ass, only to discover that someone else had

A scruffy, unfairly blue eyed someone.

("Sorry lass. I know that was your shot by rights but I have been waiting to punch the bloody moron for some years now."

She noted dimly, in the part of her brain that wasn't occupied by how fast her heart was or how perfect this officer's hair was, that his uniform made his eyes pop.

Leaving Victor's unconscious body on the floor with a quick side-step, he shot her a smile and a hand. Oh god, he had dimples.

"Killian Jones, at your service."

Or a hand rather, because as she shook it she noticed the stiff, inflexibility of the limb that was characteristic of a prosthetic

A hundred thoughts ran through her mind. Will you get in trouble for decking a fellow officer? What the hell happened to your hand? Are people actually allowed to be as pretty as you? Do you know that your uniform matches your-

"The only person that saves me is me." Oh fuck, word vomit. Out of all the thoughts, that had been the one that escaped the hinges on her jaw.

He-Killian Jones-just laughed though, throwing his head back so she could trace the beautiful lines of his throat, exactly where she'd want to bite, with eyes before his gaze landed back on hers, the stupid smile turning into a smirk and hand still outstretched.

He had a fantastic laugh.

Fuck.

"I'm only too sure, 've managed to bring us more garbage than any other bail bondsperson I've met. Still, assaulting a police officer would get you in a mite of trouble and no one will look two ways at me slamming the bugger's switch off. God knows he deserves it."

Irish. The unfairly beautiful cop in front of her who had punched his partner out to defend her honour had an Irish accent. And knew her success record. Emma looked around, waiting for the Candy Camera to show up. This could not be her life.

She stuck her hand out, biting her tongue to ensure that she was, not, in fact, dreaming.

Nope, shit that hurt.

"Emma Swan."

Killian Jones smiled again, not smirking, and warmly took her hand in his. "Lovely to meet you, Swan.")

Of course, that was just the start of the five year _friendship_ because he could quote _Top Gun_ and _Love Actually_ and neither of them had family, so they spent days arguing on each other's couches and-

And now she's in front of a nurse in John Hopkins trying to get into the room of her-of her-

Okay, friend maybe didn't cut it after the first year.

The first year, they had been _friends_.

(There was a standing Friday movie night where she made disgusting popcorn that he teased her for and he attempted to get her to eat actual food and they fought about whether _Orange is the New Black_ or _Stranger Things_ was better.

She doesn't care what he says. _Stranger Things t_ otally wins.)

So that first year, they were definitely, totally just friends. But then that boiling attraction (She had caught him staring at her ass more than once) caught and..

Emma Swan was an adult. She'd had friends with benefits before. There was August, which ended congenitally, and Walsh, which ended less-than-so.

(But no boyfriend, not after Neal, not after-)

So she only freaks out a little bit the morning after her first time sleeping with Killian because it's hardly that she feels shame (Uh, have you seen the guy) or that she's unaccustomed to the whole FWB thing, it's just that it was really, really good.

(She can still make herself cum just by thinking of the way he went down on her, voracious and hungry and so, so good. All wet tongue and soft teeth and he certainly knew how to find her clit and-)

So what scares her, honestly, is how much she likes him. How good it was between them.

And Emma being Emma, she withdraws. Throws herself into work. Ignores his ever increasingly desperate texts to her.

(She's better off alone, she reminds herself, of Neal and the-

She doesn't want to lose Killian, she tells herself.)

But then there's that one skip, that annoyingly clever dick who figured out her game and left her backside-down and bruised to the rainbow in the ER and well…

She couldn't think to call anyone _but_ Killian.

And he showed. (Of course he showed. He was nothing if not consistent.)

And there was yelling, she had expected the yelling. ("Why the bloody hell didn't you call for backup?" and "What in the seven seas were you doing trailing after a _cop killer_?" and-)

"Emma, you scared the shit out of me. Are you alright?" He gave her a look so tender, so gentle is made her want to weep. She had ignored him for four weeks and he was focused on her heart monitor, his eyes sweeping to the IV in her arm and the bag above it that was making her thoughts all cloudy and his jaw so tempting to bite.

"I should increase your dose," He said softly, a little frown appearing between his (weirdly expressive) brows as he strode toward the slow-dripping bag of painkillers, still scowling at the monitor as though he could shame it into commision.

Considering the dangerous things he was doing to her heartbeat, Emma wasn't convinced he couldn't.

"I'm fine," She argued unconvincingly and poorly, if his expression was anything to go by as he increased her morphine dose. He raised one brow and she shook her head against the fog to tell him-

"I'm better now that you're here. I'm sorry….I'm sorry I'm such a bitch." She whisper-cried the last part, feeling water heavy in her eyes and hating the sensation almost as much as she hated the sound of his sigh, heavy and tired.

"Swan, you have done nothing to feel sorry over."

The tears fill her eyes, making her sinuses burn and her lids heavy even as she tries to sniff against them. (It's the drugs, she will swear later, that made her so emotional.) "I just…" (She's been an asshole to him and he's still here and she can't even put into words what that means without sounding pathetic and she doesn't want to sound-)

"I know I'm a bitch because we slept together and then I iced you out and I deserve to be here but you're like the coolest person I've ever known and I don't want to lose you and I'm really bad at relationsh-"

He cut her off with a kiss to her temple, more gentle than anyone had possibly been with her ever and that stupid dimpled-smile and she just...she just…

"Darling, I will always, always be your friend. No matter what anyone else says. And while I greatly enjoyed our relations a few weeks back, you certainly have no standing obligation to me. I'm here, Emma. When you need or want of me, I'm here."

And she had cried and he had brushed the wetness away with his fingertips, solid and reassuring and there-

-She told him about Neal, the third year. White-knuckled and high as a kite on percocet on his couch, because they wouldn't send her home alone and he wouldn't leave her alone and her last skip got a lucky shot in the ribs…

Anyways, she told him about Neal, and the baby, and prison, and just when she wanted to die he had scooped her broken ass up and muttered his fidelity into her collarbones, making her cum with his tongue and his fingers and so, so gently like a tide until she couldn't feel her toes.

"We really need to stop having these moments when I'm on drugs."

God, she loves his laugh. Or not loves, just like really, really enjoys the wait it rumbles in his chest and out his throat and that she gets to cause that. That little sunrise.

So no, Killian Jones isn't the first friend she's slept with but is definitely the most recent (the last).

And they've never said the words but she knows how he lost a hand and he knows how she lost a baby and somewhere in between he became…

Well, he became her person. (The person to congratulate you for catching your guy and hold you when the past creeps in with all it shadows, to be your emergency contact in a giant city full of millions of people that makes you feel so alone, and make you orgasm until your eyes bug out and-)

And is why Emma Swan is still standing in the ER waiting room of John Hopkins, staring at the brown-haired nurse as she clears her throat, tapping her left foot impatiently.

It rings off the horrible, vomit-coloured tile. Seriously, they chose that colour? Why not literally anything else?

That's her first thought.

Killian would know what to say, is her second.

After all, he managed to get to her several times in the past few years Clearly, he lied about them just being friends. (Did he lie? He's her home. Her rock. Her shelter. Her person. Her sanctuary.) She's fairly certain none of those descriptions are getting her into the room.

"He's my husband."

She has no idea where that comes from. She wants to say, "he's my person" but she didn't think the nurse would accept that and he wrote her down as his emergency contact and-

Well, wives get into rooms.

She's seen it happen before. Or something.

The brown-haired gatekeeper pinches her nose in an ugly display of jealousy just as her finger darts to Emma's very bare hand.

"Where's your-"

Oh, she's going to fuck this bitch up in like half a second if she doesn't tell her where to find Killian. "The job. It's dangerous. We don't wear them."

It's a totally plausible lie and she's his emergency contact so it's not like it's unheard of. It's probably that that gets Emma into the room.

Or the fact that she was mentally wishing awkward rashes to uncomfortable places on this woman with her eyes. Maybe that.

Whatever, it gets her a mumbled and clearly sniffly "34A" and that's enough for Emma.

She ignores the nurse's cry of "No running in the halls" as she bolts down the indicated hallway, half fearing the woman will make her answer another round of questions. Not that she couldn't answer them, anyways. What kinds of questions do they even ask to prove marriageness?

(Killian's favourite colour: black

Killian's favourite coffee: black

Killian's favourite book: Call of the Wild (Dork)

Killian's favourite position:...

She really, really needs him to be okay. She can't have all these random trivia facts in her head for a dead guy.

She runs faster.)

34A is on a dull placket in front of a terrifying door and she catches her breath as her fingers tremble at the handle. What if-What if she's too late and he's gone. What if she has to watch him go? What if he dies and never knows that she-

Emma opens the door.

Emma Swan has been through some shit in her life.

There was the foster mother who dragged her through the house by her ponytail for stealing an extra serving of crackers and the foster father who was way to handsy and made her bolt and the envy in her belly at school as she watched other kids eat pb&j with crusts cut off. There's getting cuffed into an alley on the streets because she wasn't careful and there's jail and Neal and the baby. There's knowing no one ever loved her and then there's-

Well, there is seeing a man she just publicly declared was her husband sitting in a tiny, white-and-blue hospital bed with an IV in his wrist, his skin the colour of ash, and his entire left side bulgy with bandages under a ridiculous hospital issued gown.

(Ridiculous because she knows if he was awake, even that would make his stupid eyes pop)

But he's not. He looks shrunken and tired and-well, like he's been shot.

"Ms. Swan, this is Detective Gordon. I regret to notify you that Officer Jones was-"

That call, that was the worst moment of her life.

"Oh Killian," She whispers, blinking against the sudden influx of liquid in her eyes and snatching his chart as she sits down.

(She's been in enough ER rooms to know what's bad and what's scary.)

But either he has some metahuman sense or her or she smells like the garbage can her skip tried to hide in right before the call or he's just Killian and hates when she cries, his lashes flutter.

It looks funny, those sooty lashes against his abnormally pale skin, but they dangle against his cheek and struggle until those sea-blue eyes with their gold rims pop into her view and she could kiss the nurse she wished weird rashes upon a second ago because, god he's alive.

"Swan," His accent gets deeper when he just wakes up, when he's so deep inside her she isn't sure how they'll ever disentangle, when he's on his third shot of rum and his smile breeds mischief.

"Fancy seeing you here."


	2. Chapter 2

He's not sure if he's dreaming when he first wakes up. (Or at least not hallucinating, morphine drip and all.)

Emma Swan has been in his dreams since...well, probably since he caught sight of her when she went to turn in that deadbeat dad and when David had asked her how the arsehole got injured, she had cocked her pretty head and shrugged, not even bothering to hide the bruises on her left hand.

(It took him three more weeks to work up the courage to actually talk to the woman, but he had dreamed of her that night. Those golden strands thrown out on his bed. The red leather jacket she wore as armour abandoned across the carpet of his bedroom floor.)

So it's not surprising really, that his mind has conjured her image after his injury.

(He doesn't remember the bullet but he remembers the pain, searing through his left shoulder like a cleaver, renting muscle and bone and sinew.)

He's been in love with Emma Swan for a long time.

Not, as David likes to tease, since he first laid eyes on her. (Wanker.) Not even after their first conversation and her bold brush-off after he had punched the bloody bastard. It's not after numerous of his failed attempts to flirt and banter and generally get to know this woman who had him transfixed. It's not the first time they have a night on her couch and they argue over television shows. (Orange is the New Black is clearly better, he has his own feelings about the criminal justice system with his job and all.)

It is in fact, the fifth time they decide to waste time together but Emma looked tired: deep black circles under her unfairly green eyes and a sorta-grunt in greeting when she handed in her latest perp. It was the way her shoulders fell, that had him inviting her to his flat that night. The tiny nod without protest. The way he had sensed she was too…(exhausted, emotional, anything) to banter over movies or tv and instead he had made her hot cocoa with a generous dash and rum and simply read a opened up a book to read while she lounged on his couch. (He'd never forget how her hair looked that night, sprawled on his dark upholstery for the first time in riotous waves.)

It was how perfectly unawkward the quiet was between them. It had been how content she seemed to simply be in his presence while she was vulnerable, mug tipping precariously in her grip while she fought to keep her eyes opened. It was how she hadn't even argued when he spotted the molting purple bruise on her shoulder when she changed into pajamas (his clothes: Liam's hand-me-down t-shirt and a pair of his sweats three sizes to big for her). It had been the way she swayed her head into his shoulder as he applied antiseptic and wrapped a bandage around the bruise, simply resting and trusting that he would care for her at that moment.

It was the way she had looked, sprawled out on his big bed with her fair skin against his dark linens and the last of the light catching her freckles as she mumbled half-asleep when he wished her goodnight.

That, that had been the night he fell in love with Emma Swan.

But she woke as skittish as a colt and nearly fled in the morning, so Killian Jones resolved to do nothing about it. He was a patient man. He could wait for her to feel the same. (Pray she did so.)

And then, they slept together.

There had been rum involved. (Not enough to truly impair judgement, he wasn't a wanker. Just enough that his eyes were too slow to avoid staring at her arse as she turned and enough that she wasn't afraid to show him the mischievous smirk his ogling caused her and then-

Then she had kissed him.

Any man who had ever left her behind had clearly been dirt beneath her shoes. The woman kissed him, she kissed like fire and heaven and stars and lit him up from the inside and-

Was gone by morning.

Killian wasn't surprised by the disappointment he felt, by the shame that he had pushed her too far. He had known, in some dim part of his brain, as her fingers had reached under the waistband of his pants, that this would happen.

(But then her hand had enclosed around him, tiny but sure and fingers strong as she tugged and tugged until that voice had faded and there was only Emma. The beautiful lines of her body, the jagged scars on her belly he kissed. The wet, hot heat of her he felt even through a layer of latex that made his eyes roll into his head until he thought he might drown. The sality, addicting taste of her on his tongue and the way her hair tossed and turned from gold to silver as he pleasured her.)

He had tried. Christ knows, he had tried. He had texted and called and sent cat videos and silly emojis and banter about Stranger Things.

No response.

Until one day he got a call from AAMC that patient Emma Swan was hospitalized and he was her emergency contact and would he mind terribly coming down and-

He was off the phone and in the car before the receptionist had finished explaining.

And there she was, beaten nearly to a bloody pulp by some arsehole skip and crying, crying over being cruel to him with an IV in her slender wrist and her tears were cold and her eyes were gray and there was a black eye on the left side of her face blooming-

He swore that day that no matter hell or high water, he would never leave this woman. Even if he had to castigate himself into remaining friends, he would not ever abandon her.

("Killian, dude, this guy is pressing charges. He says you all out assaulted him before you cuffed him."

"...I have no idea what you are referring to David. He was drunk when I picked him up. Must have been some party."

"...You know you could just marry her and it would cause less problems.")

And then there were more movie nights. And take-out chinese became meeting at a local diner because (Killian, the grilled cheese here is to die for.) And dinner became her dropping off lunch at the station when he had sixteen hour shifts (Ugh, I can't believe I let tuna sit in my car for the drive here), and him dropping off pastries with questionable amounts of sugar to her when she was on a stakeout. (How does this possibly work, with your monstrously coloured car love?) And lunch became breakfast when they had slept together, again. No rum involved.

(Just the deep sensation of heat escalating through his body as she rode him, plummeting her body up and down his cock until he could swear the earth was on fire, he was on fire, and she was cumming, convulsing, tightening, and-gods, how that felt.)

And he woke up that second morning, half-terrified to find her gone only to find an empty bed. He had closed his eyes, wishing to dream a little longer of a world where Emma Swan was his, was in his bed, and unashamed and-

"Hey, twinkletoes. Ever getting out of bed? I can't get your stupid fancy machine to work."

-And opened his eyes, slack-jawed to find her standing at his door frame wearing only his shirt and scant less else, scowling at two empty mugs in disapproval. He must have made a face then because she went from glaring at the cups to glaring at him. "What? Do I have mascara on my face? Shit, I know I should have looked in the mirror before-"

He was on his feet and clutching her waist before his brain could catch up, an undoubtedly stupid smile on his cheeks. "You look ravishing, love. And I apologize on behalf on my uncooperative espresso machine. Allow me to make a cup cocoa for you to make up for it?"

Those lurid green eyes had dropped to his toes and Killian could swear his heart stopped beating, waiting for her answer. Would she run again or would she take a chance? Had he pushed his luck or-

She shrugged, still staring at his toes. "Make it snappy. I've been awake for like a bazillion years already."

And Killian threw back his head and laughed. (She stayed.)

So dinner became lunch and lunch became breakfast and breakfast involved him learning all sorts of facts about the indefatigable Emma Swan.

She could drink chocolate concoctions at any time of the day.

She was a foster child, a never adopted, never loved, never shown her true worth foster child. (For all his wounds, he praised the fates that he had Liam after she told him, even as his heart broke for her.)

She liked anything sugary or greasy or warm or really, it would seem, unhealthy. ("Killian, why is there kale in the fucking mac-and-cheese? Is this cauliflower?")

She had loved and lost, and he had done the same but as much as he missed Milah, Killian didn't think he had properly concealed his horror at the idea of a lover sending the second one off the plank. Milah had died loving him. Neal had...Neal had…

He was going to murder that boy if he ever met him.

And Emma didn't blink at his hand. She didn't scare when he told her about Liam and Milah and the way he felt he was sometimes cursed. (She had held him instead, a tentative touch at his shoulder devolving until he was weeping between her breasts and he clung to her as his anchor, solid and real and there.)

So somewhere down the years, he learned that she had the worst taste in music and the most beautiful twist of her hips if he hit her right there. She had lost a child and lost herself if he tongued her clit with a firm pressure with two fingers inside her. She got into bail bonds because she was good at tracking people and could make him speak tongues with her mouth. She surprisingly sung well but rarely and liked to be on top (unsurprisingly.) Until one day, Killian Jones had to take stock of everything he knew about Emma Swan and wondered if they were dating.

It was Ariel whom settled the debate.

(He loves Ariel, he really does. She's the best therapist an officer could ask for. She's caring and sensitive and always goes above-and-beyond initial hours and-

Is excruciatingly interested in his life.

"Killian, you know, Eric and I are having this mix tonight and one of my friends Mulan is coming and I think you two would really enjoy being friends."

"Ariel-I really, truly appreciate your commitment to the health and happiness of the Baltimore Police Department but I really, truly don't want to be..set up with someone."

"Oh but she's perfect. She's recently single and not high maintenance since you're like, half-married to work anyways-"

"Oi-"

"And really down to earth, which you could use since you can be a little bit in the clouds-"

"-Ariel I really-"

"And hot and you're hot too so-"

"-Ariel! Enough. I'm not...I'm not looking to date someone else right now."

Her eyes went wide and green and for all her faults and idiosyncrasies and general insanity, Ariel has always, always been perceptive.

Damn the seas.

"Killian?"

"...Yes?"

"Are you seeing someone now?"

"What? No. Of course not. As it were. I mean, not really. I just, I'm not in the current dating economy and-"

"-squeel It's Emma isn't it?"

"Wh-What?"

"OMG! I've been rooting for you two since you punched Victor. Eric has money placed on you two in the betting pool. How long have you been together? Does she know how you feel? Is she really sweet underneath the mask of apparent badass bitch?"

"Is she really...Ariel, what betting pool?")

So with, apparently his entire precinct betting whether they would end up together, Killian Jones had to admit to himself that he was dating Emma Swan. Even if the lady herself wasn't aware of it.

("And will remain, unawares, Ariel. I love the lass but she's as frightened as a-oh, bloody hell."

SQUEAL)

So Killian Jones had been quietly, truy dating Emma Swan for about a year before, well before he tracked down a child-smuggler and saw his eyes go red until they actually went red because he took a bullet in the side and apparently that's a thing and, well and then he's waking up from drugs and trauma. (He thinks)

Well, he's not sure he isn't dreaming. So, he says the first thing that comes to his addled mind because he thinks he might smell salt and did he mention he hates when she cries?

"Fancy seeing you here, love."

He's an asshole.

That's Emma's first thought.

He's alive and she loves him and she's an asshole.

That's her second, too fast for commas to be needed.

She's probably loved him since she told him about Neal and he clenched his jaw but never shut his eyes, and he's wounded in goddamn John Hopkins with it's disgusting coloured tile.

She wants to punch him. (She can't. He looks, like, too fragile.)

But even under heavy painkillers his eyes are so blue as he trains them on her and smiles, a slightly pained uptick of the mouth and, goddamn him. Goddamn Killian Jones.

"Fuck you Jones," She manages to hiss out in room 34A as she feels her throat clog and eyes well and-oh god no. "What the hell did you think you were doing, getting shot?"

Fuck, those are tears in her eyes.

Goddamnit. Fucking fuck all the fuckers and-

Emma knows Killian somehow senses her tears or whatever because he makes a noise of distress deep in his throat and tries to sit up, wincing as the bandages and IV and stupid drugs tie him down. "Emma…"

She's by his side before he can utter another word, pressing him back to the mattress with more gentility then she knew she had. "Shut up and lay back down. You're injured. Just. Stay. Or whatever."

Sniff.

Killian makes another stupid keening noise in his chest and reaches his less injured arm out until his knuckles stroke down her cheek. "But love…" The words seem heavy, hard for him to form even as his disjointed focus is on her. "You're crying. Please don't cry. I'll do anything…"

He trails off, showing her the wetness of her eyes on his knuckles and Emma shivers, her fingers wrapping in that slightly elongated hair of his neck without her knowledge as she leans over him, trying to keep her voice from shaking so badly. "Yeah well...don't end up in the ER again and we'll call it even."

Killian, Killian who likes awful talk-shows and old book, who nearly left, chuckles at her. His eyebrows rose into that ridiculous hair of his. "A little pot to the kettle isn't it love?"

He's an idiot. She loves him. He could have died. These truths bombard her even as she makes puppy-shapes out of the misfigured marble tiles of his room. "I don't care. You're...you're more important than me so you can't, you can't…"

She hates the way the liquid suffocates her, cutting off her words and making his forearm stiff as it tries to wrap around her back. As his fingers graze her spine so carefully like she were the one injured.

"Emma, that's not true." God, his voice. His stupid, perfect voice like it means exactly the words he says. "There is no one as important to me as you, lass so it must, at least be even."

He's making a joke so she tries to laugh but it erupts out of her throat like a sob and suddenly she is leaking, just spouting water out into his goddamn hospital bed and-

She loves him. Loves him. Loves him. Loves-

"Emma doll," Killian's voice is warm and soft. "Come here. Lay yourself down. No, this side is perfectly fine I assure you. You're exhausted love. Stop your tears. Oh, Emma, I'm here. I'm here."

She had waited half a moment for the LPN who had appeared at the loud sound of her shrieks to nod that it was okay to lie next to his unharmed left before snuggling into the bed, snuffling into his skin and drawing up covers as his arm curled around her shoulder.

"You and your wife cut such a cute image."

Fuck it all.


	3. Chapter 3

He has to blink, to the first time she says it and wonder how hard he hit his head and if he convinced this gorgeous, perfect creature beside him too-

There are stormclouds in her eyes, looming and frightful and her dimpled chin trembles as she opens her mouth-"'m sorry. I didn't mean to lie. I just needed to see you and there was this bitch at the front and I know wives get into rooms and-"

And. And. And.

He debates telling her he loves her. He wants to her he loves her. Has wanted it since she stole shrimp right off of his chopsticks with a ridiculous little jab, smirking in victory with her hair in a messy bun, wearing his ridiculously large sweater on his old ratty couch while, glowing every inch with the joy of pilferage as she kept arguing with him against Deadliest Catch as though-

He's been in love with her for a long time, is all.

But even in his wildest dreams, he never imagined a ring.

Killian Jones is a simple lad and the moment Emma Swan ran, head-over-feet away from his bedroom he understood that she had to set the pace, to not scare her fragile heart. In his most desperate, embarrassing daydreams ("You've got the Swan smile on your face again, loser." "Shut the fuck up, Dave.") he imagined them moving into an apartment with a decent view of the bay, or even the Magothy, he's not picky. He imagined making dinner when she had late night stakeouts and leaving it with silly little notes for her to have. He imagines waking up in the middle of the night to her cold toes pressed to his shins, and the rare days they both have the day off spent making breakfast and curled up under couches and-

He has never ever imagined marrying Emma Swan. It makes his heart do something unhealthy. He wonders if he should propose. Did she just propose? Should he buy a ring. He could buy a ring. He could-)

But he's high on painkillers and she's looking anxious in his hospital bed so no, no, Killian Jones will not propose to Emma Swan this afternoon.

What he does, instead, is sush her with a lift of his fingers, gently placing them on her lips until the babbling stops and the terrified, beautiful, gray-green eyes he loves go wide with fear.

"It's fine Swan," He thinks he whispers. (His head is still fuzzy, increasingly so.) "We'll talk in the morning."

She nods against his collarbone, careful of his broken half and as he falls back to sleep he could almost swear he hears an-

"I love you."

But is must be his dreams, drugs and all.

She's been here everyday.

Not that she wasn't a frequent houseguest of Killian's but since his release, she's made sure to be by his side every day.

He looked so broken in the hospital room, the dark bruise on his face and the pale, sweaty shine to his skin and the long, ugly bandages over his shoulder and chest. His blue eyes were unfocused for days. So she broke visitor laws and screamed at nurses and once got face-to-face with an actual Medical Administrator, a fancy lady with dark hair and red lipstick and a highly displeased scowl threatening to have her removed.

But in the end, she got to bring her laptop and cyberstalk perks while he slept or babbled or flirted half-consciously and recovered, leaving only to bag a perp.

(David stared at her as she dragged the scrawny, pale barely adult idiot in who had embezzled his parent's start up. And okay, maybe he didn't get violent but he had run and the fucker was fast and it took Emma twice as long to catch him as she wanted and that meant Killian had been alone for twice as long and-

David was still staring, looking between her and the big black eye on the kid, the way he had his right wrist tucked against his chest and was simply whimpering at the officer like being booked in a jail cell sounded perfect for him right then.

"What?!" She bristled. He was Killian's partner after all, it wasn't like he would be surprised she was in a rush.

He just shook his head muttering about _'idiots who need to get their heads out of their asses'_ before leveling her an actual look. "If you actually broke the kid's wrist, his family might actually press charges you know?"

She shrugged, waving her hand out for the slip of return. "Fractured at most. Done now."

David gave a very put upon sigh and went to book the runner, throwing over his shoulder. "Tell him hi for me.")

And when they released him, she was right there as they wheeled her out, fretting about whether her car was too small to fit him comfortably and relieved to see him in his own clothes for the first time in nearly two weeks. He simply smiled at her, that stupid, boyish grin and lifted himself up from the wheelchair and shooing away the nurse (who looked way, way too relieved to see him leave) politely before striding over to her with his arm in some sort of sling-cast thing.

"Swan," He greeted, his gaze clear and focused and his voice coherent and warm. "Ready to sail away love?"

So she took him home that first day and pushed him to his couch as she pinned instructions about Physical Therapy and work restrictions and drug regimens to the fridge with frantic energy because if she didn't she was going to do something stupid like blurt out that she loved him and wanted him.

She tuned Killian out as he tries to coerce her to join him on the couch, that he wasn't in too much pain, that the company of a beautiful woman was the best company-Swan, please love abandon your efforts in my kitchen.

The last part was a little panicked. Drama queen. She only burnt, like, two pans, before she gave up and ordered pizza.

And then she forced drugs down his throat and they argued about sleeping arrangements.

("Swan, my mother will roll over in her grave if I make a lady sleep on my couch."

"Good thing I'm hardly a lady then. You got _shot_ Killian, go to bed."

"Well love, only if I can entice you to join me." Eyebrow swagger.

"So my flailing ass can make more of a less of your arm? No thanks."

"Emma, really love it isn't a-"

"You've lost weight in the hospital and I think I can carry you. I'll try. I swear to god, Killian. I will carry you to bed and then I'll tell the entire precinct I did it.")

So she brought him home and ordered him to bed and tracked painkillers and called homecare companies to ask intrusive questions about their PT staff.

And well, it's been six weeks and she simply hasn't left.

She's just worried, is all. She just wants him to get better. She wants to annoy him into never scaring her that badly again. She's pretty sure he's going to try to take his trash down four flights of stairs if she isn't there to watch him.

("Killian, you're banned from trash duty for the next few weeks, just so you know."

"...Alright Swan."

"Banned, I say."

"I'm not fighting you love."

"I swear to god if I see you with a single bag in your hands-"

"Swan-Emma, put down the knife. You're scaring the neighbors. I heard you loud and clear love, no taking my own garbage out."

"...Or anyone else's."

"...Drat."

"KILLIAN!")

Emma Swan is a big, fat liar.

Officer Killian Jones is a lucky, lucky bastard.

(Alright, the whole: getting shot and cracked ribs and torn up shoulder and Physical Therapy to restore as much feeling to his hand as possibly isn't great. The hand thing especially sucks. But it's his non dominant so he can still hold a gun and even though his fingers still ache if he clenches too hard, it's infinitely better than those days in the hospital when a surgeon was telling him that there were options and recovery and Emma had walked out of the room to get cocoa so he wouldn't see her cry. )

But he was fortunate. Despite or because of Swan's constant haranguing of every therapist that walked in the door. (He's pretty sure Leroy, the short, grumpy male PT is the only one coming back for a reason) he can bend his fingers and his thumb has full mobility and the tingles that come from (bullet piercing interior nerves in the shoulder and arm that help neurons travel to the fingers and-)

So all in all, he should be counting his blessings.

Including the golden-haired goddess who hasn't left his side in months. That might be the best part.

Killian has been noticing her in his apartment as the days increased.

She's always had a toothbrush and a change of clothes for practicalities sake at his apartment, but it's other signs of another life that swell his heart with delight.

About two weeks in, he opened his bathroom cabinet to find an array of strange new products occupying what once was the empty space between his shaving materials and floss. Curious, he picked up each strange bottle, reading the content.

A golden little bottle of hairspray. A white, curved jar of facial cream. A tall, cream-filled bottle with a flower on it that when he opened it, smelled like Emma did when would crawl into his bed at night.

He investigated further, heat and hope flickering under his skin.

Her ridiculous cinnamon toothpaste was beside his on the sink. A squick swish of the shower revealed that yes-

The yellow, honey-smelling bottles he recognized from Emma's apartment as her shampoo and conditioner were leaning against his.

Killian leaned further in, needing to spy her soap somewhere to complete this image of his and her things and a domain shared and-

Emma was staring at the open doorway, her cheeks adorably pink and nose scrunched with embarrassment.

He froze, feeling his own face turn red as they simply stared at each other. Killian desperately sought a way to defuse the tension because he couldn't bare it if she ran now, not with all these signs of intimacy and domesticity but telling her that seeing her cinnamon toothpaste made him want to weep was bound to do that exact thing.

"I-" She opened her mouth, shut it again, curling into herself and looking at the ground. "I didn't mean to invade your space or whatever. It just got old, running home so I could rub lotion on my goddamn elbows, but I mean I can take it all out and-"

No. No. That's not what he wants at all. He wants to clutch her shampoo to his chest and fight to keep it in his bathroom. (Gods, she's right. He is a drama queen.)

Instead he smirks, trying to hide the tenderness in his gaze with a ridiculous sway to his hips. "No worries love. I was just wondering if I could get a sponge bath from a hot nurse, shower restrictions and all."

He holds up his still bandaged arm and gives her a ridiculous smoulder and waits for her to roll her eyes and walk away. What he doesn't expect is the sudden gleam of interest in her eye, or the way she is suddenly staking into his bathroom.

"Swan?" His voice does not tremble. It does not.

Not, at least, she's got his pants to his ankles and she tickles under his left knee in a way she knows makes his cock twitch in her mouth. And then he's simply doing his damndest to brace himself against the wall and not fall into the shower his brain is filled with pink lips and heat and wetness and

"Emma-stop that. Love, darling you must-oh fuck, Emma your mouth." His hips twitch in her grasp, one holding his hip bone down while the other cups his balls as she takes him deeper into her throat.

He's velvety smooth under her fingers and large, hot, and throbbing in her mouth and he can feel her smirk of power, squeezing against his base. He fights it but then his hips are rocking gently into her as her tongue traces the big vein along his backside. He wants to wind his fingers in her hair, to feel the silkiness to ground him against the tide of pleasure but he's only got one good arm and he's using that one to keep upright and-

She takes him deeper.

"Fuck-" He cries, "Emma-Emma-Emma, please, I can't-"

He grows harder and he's trying to warn her, trying to stop her, trying to beg her not to stop, and then she takes him down her throat and swallows as her free hand cups his testicles.

He comes with a shout.

(She throws the soapy rag into his good hand when it's over but she does oblige to wash his hair for him.)

And it's three weeks in when he finally convinces her to share his bed with him.

Killian jolts away at the sound of swearing and old-trained instincts have been reaching for the gun on his nightstand even as he foggy brain registers the familiar cadence of the voice stomping through his living room. A glance to his low-blue letters next to his head tells him it's a little after 3:17a.m. and he frowns because he's no stranger to Emma's erratic schedule but she had mentioned as she left earlier that evening that she expected to be back by midnight at the latest and she tends to text him if things change after one too many grumbles about his overprotective nature.

("How did the false date go, Swan? Catch your man?"

…."A runner, eh? I know you're faster than him."

"...Booking give you any trouble? I can call them for you."

"Swan, you give a man nothing. Let me know how it went."

"...Emma, I'm serious. I am now half-convinced you are in the ER. Send a bloke a text letting them know you are alright, would you?"

"I'm about to violate privacy laws and start fighting hospital administrators to find you. Please let me know you are alright."

"FUCKING HELL, KILLIAN, I WAS ASLEEP. YES, I'M FINE. YES, I GOT HIS DUMB ASS."

"...Good to hear Swan."

"...Sorry, just...sleep. I need sleep."

"Of course darling."

"Thanks for worrying.")

He listens in bed, frowning to himself for another moment until he hears another half-bitten off swear and a faint crash, and then he's up from his bed as fast as his broken side allows for.

He stumbles his way into his living room, calling out even as his eyes try to adjust to the light. "Swan, everything alright?"

She's turned on the bathroom light in what was probably an effort not to wake him and he can see her silhouetted in the ugly halogen, back turned to him and leather jacket thrown to the ground by the door. "Yeah. Sorry to wake you. You can go back to bed."

Her tone is clipped and she still hasn't turned to him, focusing on the mirror and looking pale and colourless in the tight, bright cardinal dress in the dark.

"Love?" Killian shuffles closer, ignoring the warning in her tone and touching her shoulder lightly, trying to get her to turn.

She does, slowly and he zeroes on the large, damp spot splattered across the material from right breast to her navel, the tight fabric doing nothing to repel liquid.

A thrown drink isn't anything new or worrisome, but there's something in the drawn, weary expression her sees behind the teased out hair that makes hackles rise.

She shakes her head, blinking and forcing some sort of half-smile on her face. "It's fine Killian. I just need a new dress. Asshole perp, nothing new."

He meets Swan's eyes in the mirror, tilting his brow so she knows he's not fooled and gently placing his hand on her hip, trying to reassure her of his presence and-

She hisses, her entire body jerking at the touch.

And now he's not messing around. "Emma." There's steel in his voice, the voice of an officer that he so rarely uses on her but if she's trying to hide any sort of injury while she nurses _him_ back to health-

She sighs, leaning gently back to his good side so she can tuck her head under his chin even as they keep eye contact in the mirror. "It's just a bruise."

"Let me see."

She moves away, hitching her leg on the toilet seat and hiking up the stretchy material until he can see the ugly purple mark blooming low on her hip. Killian hisses through his teeth and it's a testament to his fury at the sight that he barely even registers the sight of her panties the move provides. He moves closer to her, brushing a soothing hand through her hair and nudging the top of her head with his nose as he inspects it. It is just a bruise, but it'll ache in the morning if they do nothing tonight.

"Let me go get you some ice love. We can put a compress on it and-"

"Killian-" She nudges impercitably closer even as she lets the dress slip from her fingers, standing back up and folding her arms around herself, sound lost and tired and everything he loathes to hear. "Can we just...can we just go to bed?"

He should say no. He should make sure she does something so her movement isn't awkward in the morning but there are tiny lines in the corner of her eyes and her lashes are down and-

He can no more stop himself from folding her as close as possible than he could stop breathing, kissing her temple gently. "Of course Swan. Of course."

So as the first month fades into the second, Killian Jones wakes to mouthfuls of honey-smelling hair and frigid fingers tucked low on his waist and sleepy, slow kisses as Emma whines when he wakes her up and life is rather perfect.

His closet is filled with more leather than probably healthy and her boots are always by the door and she ruined three of his uniform shirts by throwing the in with her laundry.

(There's one night in the fifth week when he's sitting on the couch, waiting for him to join him and Black Sails all queued up and suddenly there's a clatter on his coffee table and Killian startles, staring incomprehensibly down at an actual plate, filled with what he thinks is slightly burnt broccoli and some sort of poultry in a sauce and the muticolours of wild rice in front of him before slowing turning towards his companion in comprehension.

Emma won't look at him, stubbornly staring at his television and jabbing her fork into the broccoli with more violence than necessary as the growls out, "What are you waiting for?"

It takes him another beat for it to hit Killian that she's cooked for him. Emma Swan, she of poptarts and grilled cheese, and takeout, has taken the time to cook an actual meal for him. With vegetables.

Which probably means she's been practicing behind his back-

It is the most adorable, compassionate act anyone has ever even attempted for him so he can't help but lean over and kiss her cheek before turning on the episode.

He chokes down every bite, dry rice and all.)

So by week six, Killian is terrified. It's his last week of physical therapy and while he never wants to see Leroy ever again, it also means his check-up and all-clear to go back to work and all of that is great, truly.

It just might also mean that Emma leaves and that, that makes his hands shake and heart ache and every other cliche in the damned book.

Because this is everything he has ever wanted, ever dreamed of he was shopping with Dave yesterday and there was this jewelry store...

He's being fucking weird.

She known this man for years now and she knows he was some quirks: his ability to quote Quinton Tuerentino movies to the 't', his obvious crush on Sam Bellamy, his quiet, embarrassed admiration of _flowers_ of all things.

("They are born to be lovely, exist making our filthy air cleaner, and die trod under our feet Swan. What is nobler than that?")

She did _not_ swoon when she remembers him saying that.

Killian is patient and she lives to make a jibe or a comment that turns his elf-ears red and makes him scratch behind his head, but the man has possessed a quiet kind of confidence and a false amount of bravado the entire time she has known him. It has always been something that has attracted her to him. (That she loves about him.)

But these past few days he's been...anxious. Anxious is the only word for it. He's distant and inattentive in conversation. He didn't say a single word when she packed three packs of poptarts for her stake-out on Saturday. He didn't even flinch when she switched one of his stupid Discovery Channel documentaries over to _Thor_. He's been sleeping poorly, alternating between wrapping around her like she's a goddamn teddy bear and kicking fitfully in a dream. She's woken more than once in the middle of the night to the bright blue glow of his eyes simply watching her, his cheeks turning out dimples sadly as he mutters, _"It's nothing love. Just admiring a thing of beauty."_ whenever she asks if he's okay.

He's fidgety. Just this morning he broke a coffee mug when she startled him by stumbling into the kitchen half-asleep. And he's nearly...clingy? Killian has always been physically affectionate in private: a hand resting warm on her hip, fingers playing with her hair, nose nuzzling against her collar. It's nice. He's not overwhelming or possessive, simply there.

But there's something frenetic, panicked about the way his fingers squeeze her hips now when she walks in the door. (One hand noticeably stronger than the other, and so she always wraps her own fingers around his inured one, pressing gently.) There's something on the tip of his tongue whenever she leaves, his mouth gaping before he presses them thin and nods a quick, "Stay safe, Swan."

It's fucking disturbing is what it is.

As the date of his last check-up looms and his visits from Leroy get shorter though, Emma begins to piece it together. It's the first time he's been shot, after all and she knows Killian would never let her see him scared, but there's only so much a person can go through before it starts to affect them. She's seen it in other cops, seen it even, in a few perps she gentles in with soft words and promises of help because there is a damned difference between the deadbeat who owes his kid 20 grand and the veteran who just hit three strikes stealing food from the grocery store.

But Killian is Killian and if there's one thing they have in common, it's an absolute refusal to accept help.

So, Emma makes a plan.

"Hey bud," She must startle him when he walks in the door from going out to the bar with some work friend's celebrating his recovery because he literally jumps, dropping his keys.

"Swan," His voice is a little slurred, his movements a little shaky as he bends to pick up the keys and she doesn't think it's just the ribs. "I thought you had work tonight love. No big bad to pick up?"

She shrugs from his couch, tilting her head in invitation and nudging the bag of Granny's a little closer. "Took a night off. Thought we could hang out, your return to work coming up and all."

His shoulders actually seem to slump, sadly. Like, there's a noise somewhere and everything. "Ah, of course darling. Sorry, had I known of your plans I would've been back earlier."

Yup, he's definitely a little drunk. Emma simply rolls her eyes. "You should hang out with other people, Jones. You'll start to sound like me soon."

He chuckles and makes his way over, nestling into the couch beside her and eying the bag in question. "Granny's?"

"I figured you could use a little grease to help soak up the alcohol, you lightweight."

That earns her a genuine laugh as he peruses the bag with one hand. He's been doing that more lately, simply using his dominant hand for two-handed activities and it makes Emma sure that she knows what is eating him. He raises one brow at her and her heart clenches at the familiar sight. "I'm sure there was no grilled cheese in it for you, either."

She flicks his nose in retaliation but doesn't argue because, yeah there is totally a grilled cheese for her. "The fries are yours. The onion rings are mine."

He makes a hum of contentment in his throat as he pulls out the fries and his stupid barbeque sauce (eww) and they eat in companionable silence on his couch for a while.

Emma tucks away the last corner of her sandwich, trying to think of the words to approach the topic gently. Gently, Emma.

"So, how do you feel about going back to work?" Nice. Smooth.

Despite his formally relaxed state, Killian visibly jerks before settling back into his fries with a false little grin. "Oh, it'll be good to be using my brain again. And to have company beside Leroy, your lovely self aside."

Emma nods. She can't fault him there. Talented or not, Leroy is a bitch. "What will you be doing first? Headed straight back into the field or is there a comfy seat for your ass in the nearest future, Jones?"

"Thinking of my arse again, are you Swan?" He teases and she really can't refute because...uh...yeah.

She must make a face because he laughs, full-hearted and real this time and her toes curl with pleasure at the sound of it. "I was never suited for desk work, love. Besides, too much rest and all Leroy's hard work will be for nought. No, I'll be on the street in no time."

He doesn't sound particularly upset about it but Emma turns to him, tucking her feet under her so she can face him. Her hand finds his cheek involuntarily but she doesn't regret pulling him that little bit closer. "Killian...you know, if you had any, and I mean any, misgivings about going back into the field so soon, your team would support you."

His brow crinkles in that adorable furrow but she cannot get distracted so she plunges on. "Swan-"

"I mean, I definitely know Dave you. And your Captain too probably, he seemed kinda torn up when he called. And there is nothing, nothing wrong with wanting some more time. If-If anyone gave them beef I could beat them up and I could stay here so you feel safe and…" God, she hates rambling.

"Love, Swan-" Damn. He still looks confused, and it's still cute. Damn. "What are you talking about?"

Fuck it. She's never been gentle. Or smooth. Her hands start waving in the air like exploding helicopters or something. "You've been weird all week Killian. And not like, you weird talking about nautical ropes or gun control laws. Like, actually weird. It's the first time you've been shot and I just want you to know that no one is going to think lesser of you-well, if they do I'll just beat them up-"

She can see the very moment her vague, avoiding use of the word, 'PTSD' clicks and his entire countenance lightens from chin to ears to forehead and then-

The bastard starts laughing at her.

Emma goes to get up, shame and angry welling equally in her because here she was trying to be a good...whatever and he is-

"Swan, no-I'm sorry love." He grabs her hand as she tries to stand from the couch, mirth slowly leaving the crinkle in his mouth as he tugs her, eyes wide and pleading. Tugs at her with his bad hand, the asshole.

She sits back down because she's afraid of hurting his stupid muscles, not because her soul does a weird melty thing when he looks at her like that. Not at all.

He pulls one more time, so she's pressed against him and he puts his head close to her ear, so she knows he's breathing in her hair and she can feel his heartbeat, quick and nervous and-

His breath is warm in her ear. "Emma, I'm not nervous about going back to work. I don't think I can stand staring at my television any longer, to be honest love."

She pulls back lightly to face him. "Then what-"

He sighs, looking both incandescently happy and terribly afraid. His hands are goddamn shaking again. His torso twists away from her and reaches for his back pocket for a-

The metal sits in her hand, warm from his pocket and shining in the light.

"A housekey?" Her voice is impossible to read and Killian cringes to himself, feeling like his efforts are terribly inadequate. He barely resists the urge to scratch his neck. "Or there's a ring, if you prefer…"

She's just staring at him now, her palm flat against the key and the entire line of her body beside his, their knees touching as she blinks. "A ring? Like as in an engagement ring?"

Oh bloody bumbling fuck, he's messing this up. He should be on one knee. Or more casual? Just play it off?

But Killian Jones is tired. He's tired of pretending he's not in love with this woman. Tired of pretending she isn't everything and always what he wants. "I just-Emma, I love you. You have to know that. I've loved you since the day you sat on my couch and commandeered my food and I am never going to stop loving you. So, whatever you want Swan. I got you a house key because I never want you to leave. I have adored these last two months, but if its, too much, return to your abode and know that you are always welcome here. And I got you a ring because you told those nurses we were married and if you've ever wanted that, I want that as well. The white dress and doves and everything. More than any of that though, Emma, I am yours. However you want me: a ring or a key or just me. Whatever you want love."

There's a moment of still, stale air where is is convinced he has botched everything up and she is going to run-her green eyes so wide and her silence so telling and he tries to turn away, tries to hide himself from the blow.

Emma grabs his wrist, his bad wrist, pulling it towards her until it's cradled next to her heart and there are tears in her eyes.

"Can we maybe start with the key?"

He nods, his entire being soaring and laughing and there are tears, his and hers.

"It was about fucking time," Is all David says for the toast at their wedding, two years later, when she finally accepts the ring.

No one argues.


	4. Chapter 4

She isn't home.

Emma, in fact, hasn't been home since her tailing of her fleeing criminal the night before last.

36.32 hours Swanless.

Killian is only a little bit worried. ( A lot. A lot paranoid.)

But she's texted back and sometimes she still needs her space, despite the fact that they live together, have for over a year, and he knows when to be patient.

But the moment after she accepted the ring, she's had that look in her eye.

That frightened, waiting for the other shoe to fall look. (The colour of her eyes actually changed from peridot, spring green to gray, hurricane colours and it always made him pause.)

He's never begrudged her space in all the years they were dating but this is starting to concern him.

What if the arsehole she was after got her phone? What if she's imprisoned and can't tell him. What if-What if?

Killian Jones lasts 37 hours before he grabs his car keys, enters his vehicle, and drives to the apartment Emma Swan, his fiance, insists on keeping in case he changes his mind.

Like he would change his bloody mind. She's the most brilliant, beautiful, empathetic, humourous-

She's everything.

So he locks his door and drives.

Emma Swan is a brave woman. She's faced down hardened criminals. She's brought back: perps who shot the cop on sight, perps who sold out their children, perps who stole $20,000 worth of opiates.

Emma Swan is a coward. She loves Killian Jones. Loves him in the way they make movies and write fanfiction about and-

And, And, And

That's always in her brain, the ands.

And thought Neal was a good idea. Walsh. And wanted to be loved so much that she-

That she was an idiot, is the truth. She trusted all the wrong men and three men in, she doesn't think Killian is like them but she does loves deeply and purely so it scares the living daylights out of her, is what it does.

They are getting married. Married.

Emma is not freaking out. Freaking out is for people who are planning weddings. With flowers and dresses and-

Shit. Emma Swan is totally freaking the fuck out. She doesn't have anyone to walk her down the aisle. She doesn't know what to say, She knows her dress should be white but nothing else and how does marriage change things? What is she supposed to be as a bride? She's loved this man for nearly seven years but now they're getting married and what does that do to movie night? Is she expected to cook? (Fuck no, between the two of them Killian is the chef.)

She may be hiding out at her ill-used apartment. (Maybe. Okay, yeah the first hour could totally be chalked up to making sure the pipes didn't freeze. And then that the stove still turned on if you pushed it past 450 then turned it around again, And if-)

Emma Swan is a fucking coward, she thinks should be in her headstone. If she gets a headstone. No one but Killian is likely to come if she dies but-

Goddamnit, There's Killian in her head again.

She's not afraid of him, not really. He's the most genuine human being she's ever known. He's both bashful and cocky and decided to become a cop for the actual horribly cliched reason of 'helping people'. He's brilliant. They make a killing at Thursday night trivia down at the Rabbit Hole. He's beautiful, sea-blue eyes and red-tinged scruff, muscles and sinew, and that stupid heart of gold.

Emma turns her temperamental oven. The knob runs over 475 then back again to 375. The frozen burrito she bought at 7-11 gets unwrapped and stuck inside.

Seven minutes. She can wait seven minutes to eat. (She's never missed Killian and his actual kitchen and real food this much before. He wants to marry her. She wants-

Seven minutes is a lonely time.)

Seven minutes is exactly how long it takes for her to start crying, watching the frozen burrito heat unevenly in her shitty oven.

The tears don't stop rolling down her cheeks and she wants to call Killian but she can't because he's technically the reason for them even if he never caused them and Mary Margaret, her eternally optimistic neighbor with fresh baked cookies at every hour, asked her about vows last week-

How do you marry the person you love?

She feels her knees give, the stupid, half-baked burrito in her hands as she removes it and turns off and oven and sinks onto the floor to cry.

That's about when the door jingles.

He doesn't want to push her, he doesn't.

Killian wanted to wait. Tried to wait. But four hours without a text and he had worked himself past space and into ERs and morgues and…

He uses the spare key she gave him.

(He's clutching the metal in his palm like someone is about to steal it, the teeth of the key digging into his fingers as he stares at her. Simply stares as she tosses her blonde head with an eye roll.

"I mean, it makes sense. I have yours. I'm almost never at my place but just in case-" Killian listens half-heartedly but the metal in his hand is burning a permanent mark in his flesh, in his bone, in his marrow.

Emma Swan has given him a key to her apartment. The apartment she's keeping for 'emergencies.'

He's never begrudged Emma her safety nets and walls. He understands why she hasn't broken her lease. Knows the story of Neal, Walsh, and August, and how every other man has been a right arsehole to her. But for her to give him access to that sacred place?

That's a thing, even if she won't admit it.

She's opening and closing his kitchen cabinets, probably seeking her poptarts which he may have hidden behind three bags of dehydrated fruit because Killian loves her and wants her to live a long, happy life with him. Not die at 50 of a heart attack because her diet consisted of sugar and fat for those years.

"I mean, it's not serious Killian," Swan continues, searching on top of his marble top counter, scuffing it with her boots. "It's just something I thought you might need to have one day."

She can play it off all she wants, Emma Swan has given him a key.

His heart nearly hurts, it beats too wide for his ribs.

"Swan, stop. Turn around." He doesn't recognize his own voice, raspy with emotion and love and-

Gods, she's beautiful as she gives up her search and does as he asked, jungle eyes wary and brave and so bloody bright every fiber of his being quakes.

"Killian what-" And her voice. Her delightful, wonderful voice echoing in his space. He has her key. He has her heart. She has his.

He's got her running leggings off before she can say another word, slipping the delicate lace panties down her ankle as she hitches a breath.

Then there's salty heat and the hitch of her breath when he kisses her core. There's the delectable musk of her arousal as his lips close on her clit and he works a finger, two, three into her with gentle probes and crooked joints. There's her thighs shaking against his ears, muffled cries, and the deep, hot taste of Emma when she cums, waiting for him to lick it up.)

And Killian honestly never intended to use the piece of silver he's jammed into the doorknob, but he's petrified and part of his soul kept guiding him here. He's sure she's here.

She is.

The microwave timer is beeping, which leads him to the kitchen where he finds his Swan (his fiance, the woman who owns him) curled in a ball against the ugly halogen lights on her off-coloured blue tile, weeping.

She's got her arms around her denim-clad knees and her bright head rested atop them and large, heaving breaths shaking her delicate collar bone, her lovely shoulders, her tiny belly. She has never been more beautiful to him and he can feel his heart fracture with every sob.

"Emma doll-" He feels the reflexive moisture in his own eyes and blinks against it, sinking down on his heels to face her. His hand reaches out to swipe at her cheeks and the sad, gray eyes open to focus on him with such hopelessness it clenches deep in his throat.

"I don't want to eat that burrito." He scoots closer to her, calves aching against the cold of the floor and uncaring because he's got his arms around her shivering form and she lets him wrap his fingers around her back.

"Okay love." Killian manages, pulling her closer until Emma's weight is on his thighs and he couldn't care less about his straining muscles when he feels her breath shudder against his side. "I'll just turn off the oven then."

No one moves. Emma sighs.

"I do want to marry you, you know?" Her voice is a faint whisper of it's usual self but it's Swan's and he'll take it.

"I love you Emma." He's half consuming her hair to say it but he can feel her relax at the words and it makes it worth it.

"I love you too." She murmurs against his shoulder blade, shuffling impossibly closer so it's spoken into his neck. "I just-I don't know how to get married. I-I'm-I'm scared."

His poor love. Empathy wells from his heart and trickles down to his toes until he can't decide whether to hold her tighter or go out and murder anyone who has ever hurt her.

(It's hold her tighter, it always is.)

"We don't have to, sweetling." Killian does want to. He's a bit of a romantic and Emma in a white dress with doves and bells is one of his silent fantasies. But it's not worth this. Not worth her hiding in her mostly-abandoned home for hours, eating what he would hardly call food and crying her eyes out. (He just wants her to smile.)

She quietly sighs in his shoulder. "You want to though. You want it."

He's not going to lie to her, not after all the betrayal she's been through. Killian simply holds her closer, listening to the wet splat of the burrito hitting the floor without care. "I want you happy, my love. Nothing is worth more than that." Her cold nose digs deeper into her neck, nuzzling in as she seeks warmth

"But I want you to have what you want." It's spoken into his skin, sending impossible shivers down to his toes. "I want to give you stuff too."

Gods, this woman.

Killian squeezes her biceps, kissing her temple, and swiping at the renewed tears on her cheek. "Swan, I have you. That's enough. You've always been enough."

Because that's where it comes from, even if she's only half-aware. Those long, lonely years that formed the beautiful woman he loved where wankers kept telling her she wasn't enough.

He feels her breath hitch against his collar, hears the short, drawn-out sob until she's lost to him, tears pouring forcefully against his jacket and angry cries in his ears. "Oh, sweetheart, please, please."

Killian rocks her, rocks them both as his fiance cries, his good hand tangled in her hair and his bad one up and down her back, fingers attempting to soothe. The sound of her keening breaks his heart so he ignores the half-cooked monstrosity on the floor and the fact that her oven is still on and simply holds the woman he loves more than life.

It takes a long while, but she does quiet, melting into him with a sigh a little more like contentment than fear. Her hair is most definitely choking him but nothing in the world would make him loosen his grip on her hips as she settles into him.

"I do want to marry you." She speaks into the crack between neck and shoulder, voice muffled and still just wet enough that his hackles are raised.

"Emma," He breathes in the smell of her, the floral scent in her hair and the salty smell of her flesh. "Darling, I don't want to do this again. I don't want you hiding and crying with some piss poor substitute for actual food again. Are you sure?"

She snorts at his rub against the soggy mess of burrito and removes herself, getting up and turn her shitty oven off before they burn to death or something equally dramatic. (The fact that it gives her a moment to collect her thoughts and words is totally not why. Nope.)

She sees the blinking red light finally die as she hears the man behind her snatching a paper towel and cleaning up what would have been her dinner. Because that's what Killian does. He doesn't fuss about her messes even as he cleans them up. He doesn't bitch about her wounds as he fixes them with his love and devotion. He doesn't-

She turns on her heel, suddenly feeling more sure than she's felt in...well, awhile. His gaze is fixed on her, on her motion, on her face, on her wishes-

She loves him.

Emma nods at the blue eyes that fixate on her. "Yeah. I'm sure. I'm sorry I freaked out-"

She steamrolls him before the words slip out that she knows he's about to say. ("-Emma, never apologize. You don't owe me a damn thing.")

"And I know that you magically don't care I'm a hot mess or something, but yeah, I am sure. I do want to marry you but maybe...could we skip the dress and the bells or something?"

And that sight, of his dimples forming on both cheeks as his wide, honest smile formed-that was worth everything.

It's in the circuit court the next week because Killian paid for the marriage license to be expedited. (The dork.) David was their natural witness as they promised forever to each other but Mary Margaret had stopped by Emma's old apartment as she was cleaning it out and breaking her lease on Wednesday and freaked the fuck out about her getting married so she was there too and-

Well, Killian had bet her $100 and a pick of their honeymoon destination that there would be another wedding soon enough.

And In June of that year, as she sipped a margarita out of a coconut on the boat (ship, love. She's a ship.) he rented, Emma Jones really didn't mind losing.


End file.
